The house we saw this rainy evening was, in a word, beautiful. The exterior was
done in subtle Victorian colors and the small front and rear yards were perfectly
planted and fenced in wrought iron.
The inside was pristine. The pocket doors glided on their tracks,
the plaster was intact and solid, the all original woodwork, complete with
dentils, was stripped and oiled. The windows were set with leaded glass.
Even the basement was dry and spacious and the utilities were in excellent shape.
And Maria disliked it from the moment we entered. She put on a good face
but I could see she didn’t care for the place at all as we walked around.
The foyer ate up too much of the first floor. There was no room for both the
couch and piano on the first floor.
With all the wainscotting and the large windows there was
no wall space for bookshelves and there were no built-ins. The kitchen,
three times the size of the cramped galley we make due with now, was
not large enough. The numerous rooms on the second and third floors were small. Some rooms were interconnected making her feel like she was in
a warren. We would have to pare our things down or pack them in tightly.
It was a long walk, several blocks, to the shops and stores and, the final problem, was that the neighborhood is served primarily by city-chartered buses because the two local subway lines are as far as the shops.
So it is a beautiful house. Perfect for some, but that some isn’t us.